


This Mortal Coil (Is Actually Pretty Damn Fit)

by l_cloudy



Category: Kingsman: The Secret Service (2015)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Angels & Demons, Alternate Universe - Mythology, Gen, Gift Fic, M/M, Slice of Life
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-03
Updated: 2015-09-03
Packaged: 2018-04-15 06:16:13
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,751
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4596036
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/l_cloudy/pseuds/l_cloudy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Harry is a perverted angel, Eggsy a long-suffering demon. Souls are stolen, words are exchanged and, to no one's surprise, there's much traffic in London.</p>
            </blockquote>





	This Mortal Coil (Is Actually Pretty Damn Fit)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Damned_Writers](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Damned_Writers/gifts).



> Hello there! I must apologize in advance for going off your prompt a bit. This was a last-minute pinch-it, so sadly I couldn't dedicate to this story as much time as I would have liked. However, I'm so glad I got to do this. It was such an _amazing_ prompt -I hope I did it justice, and you will be happy with the result. Enjoy!

Harry Hart looks like a middle-aged man. A rather handsome middle-aged man, to be fair – ridiculously so in Eggsy’s estimate, and he’s seen his fair share of carnal beauty, thank-you-very-much – but still. A middle-aged man clad in hand-tailored suits who never goes anywhere without an umbrella.

That will never not be funny.

Even his name is funny, thinking about it. His _human name_ , that’s it – Hart would never deign telling Eggsy his other one, nor would Eggsy want him to. The name’s such a part of the persona by now, masterfully crafted, alliteration _et all_. Eggsy very much likes the way it flows off the tongue, the sense of effortless class, how it’s such an integral part of the man it belongs to. Just as much as the suits and the carefully-cultivated manners, if not more.

The thing is, Harry Hart doesn’t get to _choose_ how he looks. He can’t do that, not with the boring anti-vanity policy that’s so strictly enforced upstairs. Along with the fluffy wings and the stick up their collective arses, angels get a body to match their personality – and the idea of an Angel of the Lord, pardon his French, masking as a mild-mannered London tailor will never stop being _hysterical_.

Seriously, the Other Guy might just be the worst boss ever. Eggsy tells himself that several times a week, always thankful for his own much more rewarding employee policy. _Come to the dark side,_ he thinks, wryly. _We have benefits._ Being good at his job got Eggsy a whole lot of perks, including this cushy surface reassignment, and his deceptively pretty face. He’s particularly proud of the jaw.

But anyways.

The reason why Eggsy is thinking about Harry Hart – more than usual, that’s it – is because said angel and his stupid posh clothes are currently stuck with him in the back of a cab, the umbrella dripping cold rain all over Eggsy’s trousers, which he kind of suspects Hart is doing on purpose. The man might be an angel, but he’s never struck Eggsy as a particularly _saintly_ one.

The way Hart _always_ finds an occasion to slap Eggsy’s arse every time they meet is a dead giveaway.

“This is stupid,” Eggsy announces to the air, because there’s no way in hell he would actually willingly _start a conversation_ with an angel. The boss would have his hide, to begin with – Roxy’s pretty cool, but she doesn’t like it when the minions get to friendly with the winged wankers. Her own words.

“We’re never gonna get there in time.” _Fucking_ British traffic, honestly.

And to think it was Eggsy’s own predecessor who’d come up with the idea to begin with, some bullshit about traffic and general inconvenience making humans easier preys to sin. Admittedly, the idea _sounded_ cool – enough to get Merlin promoted to Head Hellraiser and sent off to fuck with L.A.’s transportation system even further – but was still a terribly unpractical way to eternal damnation. Eggsy, for his part, is really into less subtle approaches like blowing up people’s heads, which besides being pretty damn satisfying has also the advantage to keep the roads clear.

Next to him, Hart is looking at his watch. Eggsy makes a point to look at the watch too, partly because he’s bored, but mostly partly because he makes a point to know where the wrist that watch is attached to is at any given time, least Harry Hart’s wandering hands find a new way to molest him when he’s distracted.

It’s a real cool-looking watch, he can’t help but notice. It’s all grey and shiny, something Eggsy is suspecting might a bit on the expensive side for the standard heavenly starter’s pack. Normally Eggsy wouldn’t judge – who is he to cast the first stone, etcetera – but _Satan_ , isn’t Hart a totally shitty angel.

It’s now ten past nine; Amelia Hansen  is supposed to die in seven minutes. They were supposed to be at her house eleven minutes ago.

“It’s ten past,” Hart says, like Eggy couldn’t fucking read a clock. He doesn’t look _that_ chavy, come the fuck on. “I suppose we’ll never make it there in time.”

He’s speaking to the air as well, because fraternization with the enemy and all that. Hart’s boss – a nasty fucker called Arthur – is ten times worse than any demon Eggsy has ever met, and that’s saying a lot coming from someone who used to be partnered with _Charlie Hesketh_ of all people.

“You _suppose_ ,” Eggsy says, mockingly, because Captain bloody Obvious much? Talking is now fine; he’s allowed to talk to angels if it’s to insult them. The Big Guy says it promotes a healthy work environment; Eggsy mostly thinks it’s fun. “Wow, however the hell did you guess?”

“Now, now,” Hart chides, positively gleeful. “There’s no need to be _rude_.”

Eggsy just glares at him, because he’s got a guess or two on whatever is making his heavenly counterpart look _this_ happy, and it’s not a thought he particularly wants to entertain. They are now moving, fucking finally; he decides to focus on that instead. So what, maybe Hart is a fucking cheater. Who cares.

He turns his head away resolutely, sneaking a peek at the general greyness outside the cab’s window. It’s _still_ raining. Sometimes Eggsy really wishes he was the one sent to L.A. instead of Merlin. Concrete and movie stars, he thinks grimly. What’s not to love?

He feels one heavy, suspiciously _angelic_ , hand come to land on his shoulder. “Now, Eggsy,” Hart begins, “there’s no shame in admitting defeat every once in a while.”

Eggsy shrugs the hand off. “Go _away_ , Hart,” he says.

He shouldn’t ‘have to admit defeat’ yet. They shouldn’t even _know_ who won until the very end – that’s the whole point of the awkward cab ride that’s threatening what’s left of Eggsy’s virtue with every passing minute. They’re meant to find out _together_ – but Hart’s best mate James is totally screwing that wanker Percy, and feeding Hart _everything_. Fucking cheating angel.

“A little humility is good for the soul,” Hart continues, all preachy and still looking at Eggsy like he’s saying something disgustingly _dirty_ instead. _And look who’s talking_ , for Beelzebub’s sake. 

The cab slows down again, this time at a fucking red light. It is now nine-fourteen; they’re gonna be spectacularly late.

“I won the last time,” Eggsy is makes a point to inform Hart, just in case the angel forgot. Or is pretending to. “And thrice in a row before that, so maybe it’s you who might wanna learn some humility, mate.”

Hart lets out a long-suffering sob at that, the kind of resigned despair of someone refusing to admit that their livelihood is doomed. A bit what Eggsy imagines a country bookstore owner might look when talking about amazon dot com –a fact of life, but an unpleasant one. Most folks do their shopping online nowadays; Nokia stopped being cool around the time MySpace did; and most newly dead souls ended up in Hell.

Well, not _all_. There were still good people left in the world, whatever those South Glade nutjobs liked to say, and those all ended up upstairs with very little effort on Hart’s part. The bad guys were all Eggsy’s – lowlifes and criminals didn’t find redemption nowhere as often as his heavenly counterpart would have liked. Then there were the middlers, the undecided, the here-and-there. Those were all fair game.

And boy, did it get vicious.

Take today’s impending. Amelia Hansen, aged twenty-seven, domestic accident. Well-paid tech job. Quiet girl, good family, part-time hacker, with that kind of arrogant ferocity geeky kids get when they’re bullied at school and then grow up thinking they’re so much better than everyone else because they watch _Battlestar Galactica_ re-runs. Not a sin deserving of hell by itself, but her little criminal habit of emptying people’s bank accounts might be.

The last bloke she hit – an ex-boyfriend; surprise surprise – killed himself, and she didn’t even bother feeling guilty about it. _On the other hand_ , Hart was quick to point out, she hadn’t exactly killed the boy herself, had she? And the girl volunteered part-time at an animal shelter, shopped Fair Trade and made sure to call her grandmother every other Sunday. Even Eggsy’s continuous subliminal suggestions to _sin bigger, already_ hadn’t seemed to bear much fruit, but still. He was so sure he had this one in the bag.  

The girl was a computer programmer, for fuck’s sake. Computer programmers always ended up downstairs. There was a mathematical equation for it – a computer programmer ex-maths major had researched the phenomena in the early Nineties. All programmers went to Hell. It was a _given_.

Not to mention, they really need someone to fix that Windows mess ASAP. All of the newly departed use Macs for some reason, but Amelia had installed Windows 10 as a joke just last week. Rumour has it that the Big Guy has been stuck with 8.1 and its frozen bluescreen for two years now, and going nuts over it.

Eggsy has never been more grateful of being promoted out than when he heard what happened to poor Diby after the whole CTRL+ALT+DEL fiasco.

Nine seventeen. Somewhere, a girl had just dropped her hair-dryer into the bathtub. What a spectacularly _shitty_ way to go, Eggsy though, wincing in sympathy for poor Amelia.

Poor Amelia, who would be going to fucking _Heaven_.

On second thought, fuck poor Amelia.

“Well, that’s it, right?” Eggsy tells Hart. “Girl’s passing over, and we ain’t there to see it.” _What a fucking waste of a morning_ , he thinks. So much for their fucking ritual. More like Hart finding new and creative ways to be stuck with Eggsy in a tiny space for half an hour straight – and if it wasn’t _entirely_ unpleasant, well. He still should’ve told Eggsy the whole thing was for nothing.

“‘M gonna take your word for it, and believe she walked into the light.” And Eggsy’s not bitter. Not at all. Who the fuck uses Windows anyway. “ _Well done_ , you.” And he turns around with every intentions to get the hell out of the bloody cab and leave Hart stuck paying the fare.

Eggsy has places to go. Souls to corrupt. The usual.

He doesn’t get out fast enough to avoid Hart’s hand on his arse. The usual.

When he slams the door, the angel’s cheerfully waving from inside the window.

Eggsy flips him off just as cheerfully. Life’s good.

 

**Author's Note:**

> ++ I'm very regretfull I couldn't fit Roxy The Awesome Demon Boss in this. All you should know anyway is that she's the local demonic supervisior, she's awesome, and likes to bring Eggsy along to learn salsa at Caribbean Night.
> 
> ++ While not quite a fusion, this story owes a lot to _Good Omens_ , the ultimate Bible (ah-ah) when it comes to friendly rivalries between heavenly beings and their downstairs counterparts. I k new I would never be able to write an Angel&Demon AU without referencing Crowley, so I didn’t even try – the bits about Eggsy’s ‘French’ and Hell’s traffic management were very liberally borrowed. Another amazing demonic-themed inspiration was Eoin Colfer’s brilliant, brilliant _The Wish List_ , one of those books everyone should read, if only to learn that all computers programmers everywhere are doomed to Hell.
> 
> ++ Again, I know this wasn’t _quite_ what you asked for, but I hoped you enjoyed it anyway. Thank you for such a fun prompt!


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